


Intent

by unsettled



Category: Zodiac (2007)
Genre: Kinktober, M/M, POV Paul Avery, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Massage, Snark, paul constantly underestimates robert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27136555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: Paul doesn’t know what he was thinking, assuming Robert would be any less surprising in bed.
Relationships: Paul Avery/Robert Graysmith
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21
Collections: Unsettled's Kinktober 2020





	Intent

Bobby's heavy on top of him, pressing him into the bed. Heavy even when he pushes up on his elbows, grinding slow, mindlessly against Paul's thigh. He looks good like this, as much of a flush on him as when they'd gotten drunk, when they'd almost ended up here. Bobby'd been all tousled and starting to lose his little straight edge, and Paul had come so close to kidnapping him, taking him home and stripping it all away. Had come even closer to just giving him a blowjob behind the bar.

"I—" Bobby starts, cutting off when Paul rubs up against him. "I haven't done this," he says, breathlessly. "I'm not really sure what you want me to do."

"Jesus, should have sent you to the library first," Paul mutters and Bobby smiles, soft, not taking it as an insult. "Pretty sure you know what to do with your hand, and I don't think you really need help figuring out what you could do with your mouth."

The hint is taken, Bobby slipping a hand between them and grabbing Paul's cock, fuck; is it really any better than it’s been with others, or is it just that it's Bobby, innocent, earnest little Bobby who always looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth? Is it just that Paul's finally got his filthy hands on him, that he's peeling back the layers and finding more that makes this feel so fucking good?

"Okay," Bobby says, "but— you said— said you wanted to get fucked."

Paul groans; "Yeah," he says, "I sure do. That what you can't figure out, boy scout?"

"I wasn't ever a boy scout," Bobby says, and bites at Paul's collarbone. He knew the kid had it in him.

He's good at following orders, and it isn't long before he's got a finger in Paul, staring at him all wide eyed. He takes a little initiative then, sliding it further in, curling it gently and stroking inside Paul. "Oh," he says, in that curious tone he gets when he's going after something he shouldn't be. "You're— soft." He closes his eyes for a moment, twisting his finger, feeling around, and Paul twitches. "I didn't think it'd feel like that."

"Like what," Paul mutters, jerking his hips, trying to force Bobby further in. "Fucking Christ, Bobby, get a move on."

"Nice," Bobby says. "I didn't know it'd be nice for me too," and he'd still wanted to do it.

"Great, good, fun for everyone," Paul says. "Now hurry up, I can take more than that."

He doesn't hurry up, and Paul should have expected that, really. Bobby's through, methodical; why would he be any different in bed, goddammit. He almost doesn't mind when that slow exploration means Bobby comes across his prostate sooner rather than later. "Shit," he gasps, "fuck, yeah, that."

Bobby hums, his finger stroking over it, slow, circling it, mapping out every centimeter and teasing until Paul's jerking his hips back onto that one lone finger. "What do I have to fucking do to get more than that in me?" Paul asks.

"Ask nicely?" Bobby tries, something approaching a smirk on his face as he pulls his finger out, and Paul sometimes forgets that sense of humor that's lurking.

"Good fucking lu— _Jesus,"_ Paul huffs, Bobby pressing two into him, going straight for that spot. He's watching Paul, those stupid, big blue eyes fixed on him, and fuck, Paul should have expected the way Bobby _toys_ with him. Teases him, drawing it out and focused on every one of Paul's reactions, cataloguing them in that weird, twisty brain of his. He's seen Bobby get stuck on something, get so focused he loses track of everything else, even loses that hunched in air he carries around. Of fucking course he would get fixated on this.

The problem is Paul can't do much about it. Doesn't know if he would really do much about it, but he can't, the way he's rolling his hips into that touch, arching his back and clawing at the sheets and fucking moaning, gasping, can't catch his breath with the way that sparking pleasure is drowning him. The way Bobby's fucking stare is killing him, too much to bear. "Fucking— you're looming, Bobby boy, what—"

"You don't like it," Bobby answers him, rote by now. "I don't think that's true anymore."

"Just— stop staring," Paul snaps. "Kiss more or something, fuck."

Looks like that's an order Bobby likes because he actually follows it, kissing Paul a lot softer than he wants, fingers never stopping the whole time. He gives in to Paul's mouth, letting everything turn towards messy, frantic, Paul slowly losing the ability to give back as good as he gets. Bobby just shifts to his neck instead, nibbling kisses down the length that had better not leave marks— fuck, who is he kidding, he doesn't care. "Bobby," he gasps, his hand coming up to dig into Bobby's hair, cling. "Fuck, baby—"

Bobby's mouth stays on his neck as Paul comes, jerking and shuddering with that deep, overwhelming wave that's so different when he gets off like this. Paul feels caught between those two points, Bobby's mouth and Bobby's fingers, like they're the only things holding him down.

Bobby leaves his fingers there, still, and when he pulls back from Paul's neck his expression is a little unsure. "Should I—" he starts, wiggling them.

"Oh god," Paul groans, "don't— don't anything, holy fuck."

That lasts maybe five minutes, because Bobby isn't good at following orders after all, what the hell had Paul been thinking earlier. Bobby's got him squirming again in fifteen, Paul's cock twitching, slowly hardening. Bobby glances down at it, the mess of come all around it. "Does that mean you can come again like this?" he asks.

Does it mean— if he was smart he'd say no. "Jesus Christ," Paul says. "Yes, you sadist," earning himself a little frown. He doesn't know why he's at all surprised by Bobby anymore; he's been tipped off balance by Bobby's books and neon drinks and clairvoyant predictions and quiet little 'okays' in response to Paul's come ons, startled into acknowledging that Bobby wasn't what he'd thought often enough it shouldn't get to him.

It still does though, he still feels that jolt of exhilaration at uncovering another piece. Still is startled when Bobby starts stroking him again, propped up on his elbow and fucking staring at Paul again. "Wouldn't you rather fuck me?" Paul asks. "Get off yourself before I get two?"

"Oh," Bobby says, blinking at him, startled like he hadn't even considered it. "I can? If you'd rather? But I'm really enjoying this."

"You're going to murder me," Paul says, and he doesn't know what on earth made him assume he could control Bobby at all.


End file.
